


The Wolf and The Weasel

by hisokasecret



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assassin Killua Zoldyck, Boys Kissing, Character Death, Cooking, Death, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Dominant Hisoka (Hunter X Hunter), Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Groping, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Neck Kissing, Rough Kissing, Sewing, Slice of Life, Touching, hisoillu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26121250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisokasecret/pseuds/hisokasecret
Summary: Collection of my work for HisoIllu week 2020 || originally posted on my twitter @hisokasecret— — —  prompts (by @illumiszoldycks on tumblr) — — —1 — married life2 — disguises3 — parties4 — love languages5 — past / future6 — reunion / perfect ending7 — role reversal8 — free day
Relationships: Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck
Comments: 11
Kudos: 166





	1. In Another Time

**Author's Note:**

> "Hisoka. Are we friends?"
> 
> "Perhaps."
> 
> "Perhaps?"
> 
> "We could have been. In another life."
> 
> "How whimsical."
> 
> "You asked."

“... Hisoka?”

“Yes, Illumi?”

The pair sits atop an abandoned roof under a hastily darkening sky. It’s not often that they get a quiet moment together; stripped of the guise of work, beyond professional obligations of colleagues.

“Do you have friends?”

The magician chuckles.

“I have you.”

A moment of silence.

“Are we... friends?”

Hisoka tilts his head to one side, amused. He glances at Illumi from the corner of his eye. He is smiling.

“What do you think?”

The assassin sits very still, only his long hair, almost imperceptible against the inked black of the night, sways in the gentle breeze of twilight. 

“No.”

They continue to sit in silence, gazing up at the pitch black canvas, dotted with infinitesimal stars. One of them falls; it streaks across the carefully painted sky, taking with it the light of the night, and stirrings of a love that can never be.

——————  
day 1 — married life (or what it could have been)


	2. A Hard Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A high stakes job requires high stakes preparations. In this case, it involves half a dozen needles and a very eager clown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 2 - disguises
> 
> "You've outdone yourself this time."
> 
> "You flatter me."
> 
> "I would never lie for mere flattery, Illumi."
> 
> "Oh, but you would."

“Hold still.” 

It is rare for Illumi’s expression to betray anything but a deadpan stare, but this is a special occasion: a certain redhead magician is involved. He sits before Illumi, grinning madly, doing a horrible job of feigning innocence.

“I’m doing my best.” 

Hisoka seems to be enjoying himself far too much for the activity at present; squirming in his seat at the prospect of Illumi’s needles piercing his skull, altering the very structure of his cheek bones (along with everything else that makes up his visage).

“It’ll hurt more if you keep moving.”

“You seem to think that will faze me.”

“Stop talking.” 

The first needle goes into his left temple. Hisoka shudders. It feels good. 

The second needle goes under his right cheekbone. The bones beneath his face begin to bubble and shift.

The third needle goes under his left cheekbone. Illumi lines up the next shot with deadly precision and lack of restraint. 

The fourth needle goes into his right jaw. Hisoka lets out a sensual groan. Only he would take pleasure in such agony.

The fifth needle goes into his left jaw. Illumi thinks about his own transformation. It is simply work. So is this.

The sixth needle goes into his right temple. Hisoka’s eyes roll into the back of his head.

The last needle goes on the top of his head. Illumi slides it in with a practised hand. Hisoka’s cheek bones cease to undulate beneath his pale skin and click into place.

“So, how do I look?” 

Illumi stares blankly back at his doppelgänger.

It’s strange to think that his own face is capable of such dynamic expression. Hisoka has found a way to turn Illumi’s usual round, blank eyes into playful slits, complete with a grin that is quintessential for the flamboyant magician.

“Good enough. Stop smiling.”

“Don’t you trust that I know you well enough to not smile on the job? Relax.”

“I don’t trust you. Stop touching my hair.”

“But it’s so smooth~” 

The pair leave the room side by side, their jet black locks swaying slightly in the wind as they set off into the unforgiving night.


	3. The Masquerade Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An infamous thief hosts an extravagant party. A curious magician shows up. A disinterested assassin is involved. Tension ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 3 - parties
> 
> "Why don't you dress like this more?"
> 
> "I do not dress for beauty, Hisoka."
> 
> "You should."
> 
> "I shan't."

Hisoka glances around at the dilapidated amusement park, mildly unimpressed. Lucilfer always sends the strangest party invites. This place might have been beautiful once, his eyes gloss over the broken rides and empty stalls littered throughout the vast and presently vacant expanse. Flashes of memory bubble to the forefront of his mind; brightly coloured lights, dancing white horses, and an all too familiar melody of carousel music. Hisoka brushes them away. They were from a different time; a past life. The magician’s high heels crunch noisily on the gravel, coming to a halt just outside the mouth of a large, and dimly lit circus tent. At least, that’s what it looks like from the outside.

He ducks his head and steps inside.

It’s as if the circus never left. The inner walls of the tent are blindingly white, with streamers of red and black tastefully draped tastefully all around. Bright lights illuminate the large tent, which is already bustling with mysteriously masked party-goers, all dressed to the nines in fancy costumes complete with feathers and fur.

“Don’t you look dashing?”

The masked host of tonight’s extravagant event appears next to Hisoka, a small smile on his lips. He’s dressed simply, a jet black suit and a blood red tie. A raven mask obscures the top half of his face.

“Fancy party, Chrollo.” It was only fair to return the party host’s polite greeting with a flattering compliment of his own.

Hisoka scans the crowd slowly, searching. Usually he would not be this open about his intentions, but it has been a long day, and he is not sure how long more he can wait to satisfy his needs. He has very specific tastes.

“Surely you didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” Chrollo laughs softly, watching the magician’s futile search with an amused expression.

“Where is he?”

“You’ll have to be a little more specific.”

“Don’t tease me, Lucilfer.”

Chrollo laughs again. It’s the sound of champagne glasses clinking.

“Find him yourself.”

He turns to leave, but not before slipping a glass of clear liquid into Hisoka’s hand. By the time Hisoka had tipped the contents of the burning liquid down his throat, Chrollo had vanished, blending seamlessly into the mass of foreign bodies.

There’s only one way to quell the burning urge within his soul. Hisoka pushes his way into the crowd. He catches glimpses of would-be familiar faces, half-obscured by large feathered masks or silken scarves as he weaves through the murmuring party-goers. They have settled into a comfortable lull of booze and languid moves, in time with a choice of sensual jazz. They have no place to be. But Hisoka does.

He knows exactly what he’s looking for, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t find the elusive assassin by the end of the night.

\----

Illumi Zoldyck stands at the furthest tent wall, left alone by the masked crowd, and quite unnoticed. He’s here for formalities’ sake. Kikyo had insisted on a gown. A velvet emerald gown, hugging his bodice in all the right places, slits up to his thigh for mobility. And of course, a matching emerald mask, comfortably cloaking his eyes and nose in silk and gems. Illumi sips at his cocktail. It doesn’t affect him in ways that alcohol usually does, but the sickeningly sweet taste makes the night slightly more bearable.

The crowd stirs. A change in their rhythmic swaying. Illumi glances up from his drink.  
The magician moves towards him with a barely restrained pace. His fiery hair is slicked back in its usual updo, and he’s wearing a tightly fitted blazer in the deepest maroon. Suit symbols adorn the sleeves and the meticulously sewn hem, the label studded with blood red rubies. His mask, a painted one. He sports his signature teardrop and star, in bold fuchsia and black. Illumi sets down his drink.

And not a moment too soon.

Hisoka closes in on his target, thinly veiled lust emanating from his entire being.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

It’s been a long time since Illumi’s heard those words, that voice, those lips in his ear.

“Hello, Hisoka.”

“You didn’t call.”

Hisoka’s body is pressed up against the assassin, his leg in between Illumi’s pinning him to the tent walls, his gown riding up and exposing the pale flesh of his thigh. Illumi doesn’t flinch.

“Nor did you.”

A deft finger traces Illumi’s jawline, the angle of his cheekbones. Hisoka settles on affectionately tucking a silky lock of hair behind his lover’s ear.

“Still, I found you, didn’t I?” The magician chuckles.

Indeed, finding each other in the chaos and bloodshed of the underbelly of society is certainly one of the turn-ons that keep their relationship fresh and delectable. They rarely meet. And when they do, well. They fuck.

“Lucky you.” Illumi returns blankly.

“Just let me have this, love.” Hisoka sighs, his breath tickling the other man’s nape, as he leans in to plant the lightest kiss on his lips. He tastes like bubble gum and vodka. His tongue presses against Illumi’s lips, and Illumi relents, allowing him to invade his crevice with desperate want. Hisoka's hands are everywhere, stroking, groping, pinching, grabbing. Illumi's thighs burn. Something hard is pressing against his pelvis through the cool velvet. His neck is laid bare to the magician, who's already left his mark in several visible places.

"You just can't wait, can you?" Illumi keeps his breathing measured. It is not easy but he is a trained professional.

"You tempt me too much." Hisoka growls, his teeth running along the soft skin of Illumi's clavicle.

"I indulge you too much."

"You talk too much."

Heavy breathing, barely restrained aura, and above all, the pressing problem against Illumi's thigh. These signs alert him to Hisoka quickly reaching his limit. Illumi knows that if he wants his dress to stay intact, he'll have to move quickly. In a swift movement, he detaches himself from Hisoka's grasp, sliding out from under his posessive arms, and nods towards the exit. Hisoka's lips curl into a grin. Illumi thought he heard him purr. After all, this is his promised prize to take home from a night at the circus.

But one night, alone.

For by dawn the assassin will be gone, leaving nothing but aching hips and puckered bites on unspeakable places. And then, the hunt will start again. The chase for a high that will never come down.


	4. And Then There Were Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the stolen moments before dawn, even murderers lie with innocence and honeyed lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 4 - love languages
> 
> "Would you say you've come to adore me, Illumi?"
> 
> "What a contrived notion. You're joking."
> 
> "No, I'm afraid not. I'll go first: I adore you."
> 
> "You must be mistaken."
> 
> "Oh, how you wound me."

Silken sheets stir slightly. A sliver of daylight shines in, bathing the quaint room in the afterglow of a rising dawn. Two bodies, impossibly intertwined, lie fast asleep amidst soft sheets of pale gold.

His hair is fiery beyond comparison; coiffed fuchsia waves belie lilac undertones, presently subdued over lidded lashes. A bold declaration of eccentricity and whimsy. He is the sun. Of burning passion and a hunger for more. 

His is a muted obsidian; a few shades shy of darker than black. It has a mind of its own, and flows like the Styx. A gingerly-inked melody, choreographed to every note, every beat. A silent requiem.They meet in the middle, fingers thread through red and black, leaving tales of bloodied bruises through the night’s cacophony. Only to wake and bathe in the kisses of twilight. 

All is well.

Red reaches for Black. Black stains, a stolid statue; Red is pompous and aggressively so. They touch, an electric kiss. Tongues tied and soft moans. Morning intercourse is simple and dainty in its naïveté. It does not reach the heights of the night’s conquests. 

But that is okay. 

They remain entangled in this way, brief and blissful, in the moment before dawn. Time is still. 

Lust? Of course. Love? They wouldn’t dream of it.


	5. A Day At The Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 16 years ago, Silva Zoldyck made the life-changing decision to bring his eldest son on a job at the circus. 
> 
> This is the story of how a young assassin wandered into the magician's den.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 5 - past / future
> 
> "I have something for you."
> 
> "Oh? A present? You shouldn't have, Illumi~"
> 
> "It's yours. I'm merely returning it."
> 
> "This-? Ah. You've kept it? All this time?"
> 
> "16 years."
> 
> "How sentimental of you."
> 
> "I am an assassin, not a thief."

Silva Zoldyck does not usually take his children on field trips, but today is an exception. His eldest has just turned 8. And Silva just so happens to have a target at the circus.

“Come, Illumi. The show is starting.”

Any other child would have been ecstatic to be in the large colourful tent, with its high ceiling and cascading streamers, to be amidst the crowd abuzz with excitement. Illumi remains silent, watchful and unimpressed. He remains close to Silva, squeezing easily through the crowd to the front row where they sit and wait. The ringmaster appears, wearing a blazer, suspenders and top hat to boot. At his command, the show commences to uproarious applause.

“When everyone is watching the act, the target will be in the furthest corner, away from the action.”

Illumi listens and nods once. His father’s words go in a compartment of their own in his brain, under the tab for “stalking targets”; a perfectly organized storage unit. He’s been trained well. One by one, the performers strut out into the ring to showcase their talents. And for each one, Illumi finds them to be more and more laughable. Juggling knives. Leaping through rings of fire. Beast tamers. Trapeze artists. Such acts are trivial in the eyes of the young assassin, who has seen and done far more, and far worse.

Silva is restless too, but professionalism and years of experience keep him sitting upright and alert. Illumi follows suit. A perfect copy. The next act is announced.

“Behold, our prized protégé, the young Magician!”

The crowd roars with thunderous applause as a small, skinny boy appears out of nowhere in the center of the ring. He wears a strange outfit, adorned with red and black squares and haphazardly-placed suit symbols, complete with puffy pants and puffy sleeves.  
His hair is the brightest shade of fiery red, and it falls over his slanted eyes. He’s smiling. Illumi remains motionless, watching. The boy can’t be much older than himself, but holds himself with the grace and poise of a seasoned expert. The crowd watches with bated breath  
as the boy begins his act. He materializes a deck of cards from thin air, and begins to shuffle.

“I need a volunteer.” 

Then, without warning, he throws a card with incredible speed and precision directly at the crowd. It misses Illumi by a hair. A few strands of his dark locks are sliced clean off.

“You. Pick a card.” The young magician is pointing directly at Illumi.

Illumi looks to Silva for approval, and upon obtaining it, walks into the ring and selects a card from the deck. “I know what card it is.” The redheaded magician takes the card from Illumi, facedown. He closes his eyes, as if in deep thought, and then, with an expert flick of his wrist, hurls it directly at the ringmaster. It strikes him square in the forehead, embedding itself in the hard bone of his skull. Someone screams. All hell breaks loose.

“Time to go.” Silva’s voice.

For the first time in his life, Illumi hesitates. He can’t seem to look away from the magician with his head of fiery hair. The magician looks back. Bright red flecks dance within his golden irises.

“What’s your name?”

“Illumi.” His own name feels strange on his tongue.

Self introductions are redundant when your only company usually ends up dead with their names on their tongues. Self introductions often go unpracticed.

“I’m Hisoka.”

The young magician smiles, and holds out a hand. Illumi is not sure why, but he takes it. It’s warm. The hands he‘s used to are cold and hard. Illumi opens his mouth to say something, but in that moment, several things happen at once. It’s hard to say which comes first, but chronologically, the ground explodes. This then causes the ceiling of the tent to collapse. Chaos ensues. The crowd is stampeding.

“We’re leaving, Illumi.” Silva grabs his son by the arm and pulls. Illumi releases the warm hand and is suddenly far, far away.

That night, Illumi turns over the card in his hands. It’s the Ace of spades. He had found it in his back pocket, with no knowledge of how it had gotten there. It was only many years later that he would manage to track down the elusive magician, to return him the strangely missing card, from a deck stained with cruel laughter and bloodshed.


	6. Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grandfather's clock chimes thrice. It is still dark out. The mirror on the bedroom wall keeps a secret hushed behind cracked fissures. All is well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 6 — reunion / perfect ending
> 
> "We could have taken the world by storm, Illu."
> 
> "You might have. That was never an interest of mine."
> 
> "I would have loved to do it with you."
> 
> "I work alone."
> 
> "We both know that's not true."

It’s just past midnight. The key to the front door turns soundlessly. A slender frame steps over the threshold, long obsidian hair swaying behind him.

“Welcome home.”

The magician has his hair down in uncharacteristic fashion, a distinct lack of makeup graces his chiseled visage. He wears his toothy grin like a badge of honour, arms wide open in a welcoming embrace for his newly-wed lover. Illumi steps into his husband, slipping arms around his waist. His eyes close; he takes a deep breath. Hisoka smells like steak, leather, and roses. He rarely goes without makeup, but Illumi loves when he does. A smattering of freckles trail across his cheekbones and nose.

“Why do you cover them up?”

He’d asked the first time Hisoka had been brave enough to bare his face. Illumi used to dot each freckle with the lightest touch of the tips of fingers. Hisoka merely shrugged.

”Convenience. I don’t like them.”

“Why?” A beat of silence. “They remind me of me. In the past. When I was young.”

Illumi nodded. He didn’t need to elaborate. Illumi understood. He cupped his lover’s cheeks between pale palms and planted a soft kiss on the tip of his freckled nose.

“Keep them on. I like them.”

Hisoka smiled. For the first time since he’d known the magician, Illumi thought that this might have been the first genuine smile he’d seen. Hisoka had eye wrinkles when he smiled from the heart. Illumi thought that adorable.

“How was your day?”

The question brings him back to the present, his head nestled comfortably in Hisoka’s ample chest, arms wrapped around each other in comfortably loose embrace.

“The usual. No surprises.”

“Come to bed with me.”

The magician takes his hand and pulls him along. Illumi doesn’t resist. Being in bed together took an unexpectedly pleasant turn after marriage. Before, it was just a quick fuck; sensual and full of love, but fuelled by lust and ravenous hunger. Now, bed can just mean this, nothing more than comfort and a cuddle. Hisoka looks almost childlike, the edge of his features soften out in slumber. They could stay like this forever, entwined and wrapped up in a moment in time. Where does one body end and the other begin? There is no way to tell, where black hair meets red, where the broken find and fix their wounds, where they kiss your scars and make them better. Frozen in a picturesque scene once upon a dream. They heal together.

At least, that’s what they could have been. 

—————— 

Illumi stares down at the body before him. Usually his jobs are simple, clean, and bloodless. He looks down at the sticky, dark red substance coating his hands, then back to the body, splattered in a matching shade of killer red.

Even in death, Hisoka was stunning. His face no paler than usual, eyes closed as if in slumber. It could almost be true, were it not for the slowly spreading red across his chest, blossoming from the cavity where a heart might have resided once.

He was almost beautiful, and poetically so. Illumi considers his immediate actions. Never once has he felt anything towards his target but a sense of duty, and satisfaction upon completion. Professionalism for a job well done.

So, when Illumi reaches into his chest, he feels nothing. No, even less than. How can something be missing when it was not once there before? It was all very strange. When the magician had drawn his final breath, something deep inside Illumi’s chest shifted, and cracked.

Just a little. A chink in the well oiled machine. He would fix it, of course, in due time. But for now, he sits. He reaches out to take Hisoka’s hand. He expects it to be cold and stiff. It’s strangely soft. And oddly warm. They sit like this. An eternity in each other’s arms.


	7. How Hard Can It Be To Fry A Fish?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clown and the robot swap roles for the day. No, I'm not talking about circus tricks or contracted murder; I'm talking about cooking and cross-stitching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The needle goes through here, and then loop, and out?"
> 
> "No."
> 
> "Well, then what is it?"
> 
> "Not that."
> 
> "You're being impossible, Illu."
> 
> "And you're being stupid."

"Hisoka. Get over here."

"What is it, my love— Oh. Oh dear." 

The magician's singsong voice floats into the kitchen from the next room, but falters as he eyes a thick column of putrid smoke wafting out.

Hisoka can only imagine the horrors that have conspired with Illumi presiding over the kitchen today. Usually it would be up to the magician to whip up something for the both of them. Contrary to popular belief, Hisoka is as skilled a chef as he is a magician. Sleight of hand and filleting steak have more in common than one might think. Presently, Hisoka had been preoccupied with a new struggle of his own: sewing. Cross-stitch in hand, Hisoka hurries into the now boiling kitchen, coughing as he inhales the acrid smoke. 

"Illumi, darling? Can I help you, please? Before you burn our apartment down?"

His beau is wearing what must have been a white apron, but had been stained with terrifying shades of red and black, and for some reason, green. He is presently standing, unflinchingly, before the stove, which is now engulfed in ceiling-high flames.

Illumi turns to look at him, his long black hair swept up into a messy bun piled atop his head, black soot marks his porcelain face in parts. He shoots Hisoka a deadpan look. Hisoka has been with him long enough to know that it means a very smug "I told you so".

"Really? If I recall correctly, you were the one who wanted this.”

That much is true. It had indeed been Hisoka's idea for them to swap. But staring at the charred walls, the mystery meat now nearing ashy levels of doneness, Hisoka realises that he has failed to account for Illumi's sore incapacity to transfer his excellent assassination skills to anything else but murder and manipulation. Well, he did murder the frying pan, but that was about it.

"Yes, well, I had hoped you would be a tad more successful with this endeavour."

Hisoka sheepishly waves his half-finished cross-stitch for Illumi to see, before going over to him and gingerly taking over the frying pan. Illumi relinquishes his hold on the melted pan, and looks as if he's about to back off, but Hisoka knows better.

In the split second that follows, Illumi has the magician backed into a wall, a filet knife pointed at his bare throat. Hisoka smiles good-naturedly, holding the smouldering frying pan at arm's length between him and his agitated lover.

"Don't ever, EVER. Make me cook again.”

"It was worth a shot, my love."

Illumi lowers the knife. He eyes the cross-stitch in Hisoka's other hand. 

"Can I- May I see?" Cross-stitching is a hobby of his, you see.

Illumi is terribly fond of it and even fonder of ensuring that absolutely no one finds out about it. (Hisoka is an exception; he'd caught him in the act and found it incredibly endearing). The cross-stitch is unfinished but Illumi can just make out the shaky cursive lettering:

/Bungee Gum has the properties/

Illumi sighs.

"Do you like it?"

"As much as you like my cooking."

"Very much then?"

"Not at all."


	8. It Sucks Being a Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a killer really, really sucks. Illumi comes to terms with this the hard way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Run away with me, Illumi."
> 
> "Are you proposing we elope?"
> 
> "I am."
> 
> "You must be out of your mind."
> 
> "Ah, but you knew that when you met me."

It is quite uncommon for multiple contract killers to be hired to eliminate a single target, but X is a powerful man with a great deal of money. Illumi isn’t sure how many have been hired for the job, but his intel suggests that there are multiple, handpicked across the vast underbelly from the darkest corners of a taboo society; all incredibly skilled, and incredibly lethal. Usually this many assassins would be considered overkill for a one man job, but when Illumi received his designation via the usual methods, ice filled his veins, and he understood. Such drastic means would certainly be necessary when one’s target is none other than the elusive magician-masquerading monster:

Hisoka Morow.

Of course, the man had to be killed. He had made several enemies in very high places, it was only a matter of time before this were to happen. Hisoka, of course, wouldn’t mind this one bit. He was probably relishing in the commotion he’d caused; it is impossible to hire a dozen of the underworld’s best headhunters without word getting around about the speculated target. Illumi distinctly recalls how tickled the redhead had been to find that the Troupe was on his tail. He enjoys the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline of closing in on the kill. He revels in it; bathing in the desperation of his opponents. But what’s in it for him? 

\---

“Why do you do this?” 

Illumi rarely asks the questions in their relationship. It is, after all, a professional one. But today is a special occasion. Their first post-work hang, if you will. Reclined atop a deserted building overlooking the night scene of York New City.

“Do what?” 

Hisoka does not glance up from his card tower, so painstakingly built from scratch. He’s onto his 3rd deck of cards now.

“Why do you want to die?”

“Who told you that?”

“A hunch. I’ve spent enough time with you to tell.”

This is true. Illumi can't say for sure, but something about the whimsical magician’s recklessness has dropped several hints in his direction. Illumi looks over at his companion. 

Hisoka is silent for the better part of a minute. Illumi watches as he added the final card to the top of his tower. When he is finished, Hisoka sits back on his ankles, looking up at the sky.

“I don’t wish for death to take me. Not in the regular sense, anyway.” A flick of one pointed finger, and the card tower falls, a cascading cacophony of wordless sentiments.

“There’s always something on the line.”

\---

Illumi closes his eyes, Hisoka’s words still ringing in his ears. There’s always something on the line. His arms. His legs. His limbs. His life.

This arrangement is inevitable. But it is too soon. 

Illumi stares down at the note in his hands, Hisoka’s name printed in neat lettering, his mind blank and racing all at once. He thinks about Hisoka. For the first time since the start of his career, he is, without a doubt, about to miss a target. And not just miss, he is about to help them escape. He has no time to really think about why he is doing this. If he thinks hard enough, it will occur to him that this goes against his very core principles as a Zoldyck assassin. Which is why Illumi does not think at all. All Illumi knows is that Hisoka simply cannot die. Can Illumi kill him? Very possibly. Does he want to? Illumi stops. He’s thinking now. He’s never had to consider desire in his jobs.There was only duty. He forces himself to stop thinking.

How? How can this be done?

Illumi picked up the phone. And put it down again. Calling Hisoka seems like a foolish idea, but then again, Illumi is not thinking. Who could he call, what strings could he pull, who could he control to orchestrate this grand swindle. Swindle? He was starting to sound like Hisoka. And then, the phone rings.

“Illumi, stop.”

It’s Killua.

Silence.

“Why did you call, Killu?”

The dial tone sounds as Killua himself rounds the corner, a strange expression on his face.

“It’s been done.”

Time slows. There seems to be a disconnect between mind and body. Illumi cocks his head to one side. What’s been done?

“He’s dead.”

It seems to pain Killua to convey this news, but his tone of relief is masked by conflict and a series of complex emotions. He has had a complicated relationship with the magician, but even moreso, his eldest brother. He looks to Illumi now, searching his face for some sign of recognition, acknowledgement, understanding. He finds none.

“No. He’s not.” The words spill from Illumi’s lips without any real intent.

Denial.

“It really sucks, Illu.” Killua walks awkwardly towards his brother, kneeling down before him. “Being a killer.”

Illumi’s words fail him. His emotions, faulty from disuse, spill over in the form of wetness and constricting rings around bone thin ribs. He can only assent in silence. A strangled sound rises from his throat, constricted and thick with unfamiliar emotion. Inhuman. Illumi doesn’t cry. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t even know what this feeling is. But Killua does. The young boy extends a hesitant hug. Two brothers with bloodstained hands, wrapped in a lonely embrace; neither having chosen this wretched path.They are mere puppets in a grand game of underworld politics and dirty money dipped in blood, forced into a delicate dance of death and cruelty that stains, and remains.


End file.
